13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Matt
Nolan is lying in bed beside me when I wake up, staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t notice me at first. He looks tired. Sad.
I tap him twice on the back of his hand where it rests between us. He startles, blinks, then smiles at me. It’s not fake, but it’s muted. “Good morning.”
I arch an eyebrow at him as if to ask, Is it?
He rolls his head on his pillow until he’s looking at the ceiling again, his smile slipping away. “He’s back.”
My stomach twists.
Jake is my monster, at least my monster that lives in the house, but Master Nathan - no, that’s not the right name, what’s his name again? - is Nolan’s. And now he’s back.
Does that mean he found Mica? Is he imprisoned? Dead?
Or does this mean that Mas - no, not the right name, he's, he's, he's Travis, yeah, Travis - failed? Is he still out there, somewhere, hurting someone else? Stealing someone else’s voice?
Nolan’s hand slips into mine, squeezing. I turn to him. He looks worried.
I squeeze his hand back, trying to tell him that it’s okay. Everything will be okay. It’s hard to get that across without words, though. Or maybe it’s just hard because I don’t believe it.
I want to believe it.
In Ace’s office, I had almost believed it. With Dr. Singh, too.
I don’t know. Maybe things will be okay.
Then again, Travis is back. Mica might still be free.
And Jake.
Jake’s still here.
I squeeze his hand again. I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean this time. Maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe me just being here, confused and worried alongside him, is helpful. I feel better when he squeezes mine again, after all.
It’s enough.
Maybe I can be enough.
It’s another bad day for Nolan, but he doesn’t hide away in the bedroom this time.
He wants to be out in the open. Even though he flinches every time someone new comes into the room we’re in, or has to close his eyes and breathe whenever he hears Travis’ voice.
He’s anxious and shaky, rambling half to me, but mostly to himself.
The recipe he’s making for dinner is long and complicated.
He’ll have to stay in the kitchen for a few hours.
He says it like it’s something he has to deal with, sighing and shrugging a shoulder as if to say it can’t be helped, but he’s the one who chose the recipe.
He’s the one who looked through the little book of recipes that had suddenly appeared just a few days ago, taking his time until he settled on this particularly long and complicated one.
Though, maybe it’s him making it complicated. It does take him nine minutes to peel a single potato, after all.
I keep him company, trying not to look too closely at the food he’s preparing, hoping my stomach won’t growl with hunger or rebel against the sights and smells until I get sick.
It’s just before dinner when it clicks for me - the reason Nolan was sacrificing himself out in the open. I see it in the way his whole body relaxes when Maison walks into the kitchen. Nolan’s eyes dart around as he seems to check every inch of him, making sure he’s in one piece.
Maison is self-destructive, Nolan has told me. Maison is full of shame and guilt. Maison is devastated.
I have my own observation as I watch them look at each other: Maison breathes easier when he has Nolan nearby.
That’s nice.
That’s really nice.
Maison helps carry things to the table, setting up plates and forks.
I help with the glasses and the pitcher of ice water.
I take my time, not wanting to be available when it’s time to bring the food so everyone can eat family style at the table.
I think if I have to look at the mashed potatoes one more time, I’ll lose it.
I try not to let my mind tumble in the wrong direction at the thought. I try not to think about how they’d feel in my mouth. The mush of them. The weight. The way it’d ooze into every crack and crevice.
I blink and realize I’m sitting at the table now, most of the others seated there too. I don’t know what I missed. A quick glance at Nolan makes me think nothing important. He’d be looking at me all worried if I had.
Then again, his focus is pretty much all on Maison right now, so maybe that isn’t as good of a clue as it could be. Bryce smiles when I meet his eye, though, so it’s okay. Everything is okay.
They’re all happy. Laughing. Teasing, I realize.
They’re teasing Ace about his cooking. I watch his face as they do.
He’s smiling big. He’s pretending he’s offended, even though he’s the one who stopped me from having to try to eat his food the other night.
He had been doing his rambling thing again, when he’d stopped me.
He had signed some of his words. He had smiled.
And then that night, when I came to hide, he had played me music. He had filled the air with pretty words that didn’t want anything from me. He stayed nearby, safe, steady, without ever looking at me with worry or pity or expectation.
His eyes meet mine across the table. His smile gets smaller, but not in a bad way. The first one, the big grin, was part of the act. This one is real. This one feels like it's just for me. It's so much warmer, this one. So much nicer.
I smile back without trying, the movement suddenly easy. It had been that way in his office, too. It had happened so fast that it had taken a second for me to realize what was even happening. It was like magic.
I had thought it was the chance to hide that made it easy for me then, but maybe it’s just Ace.
Maybe there’s an observation that needs to be made about myself, a reflection of Maison and my friend; Maybe I breathe easier with Ace.
It’s nice.
It’s really nice.
Better than nice.
But then he looks away, picking up a roll to playfully throw it at Carter, and I look down, trying to think of the word to describe this feeling, and-
-and-
-and-
-and someone - someone put-
-someone put food on my plate.
A slice of the roasted chicken, all white and glistening, too moist, the smell of all the seasoning overpowering, nauseating. Green beans that have a slimy looking sauce drizzled over them. A dinner roll, a corner of it soaking up the green bean juices.
And mashed potatoes.
Someone put mashed potatoes on my plate. A big scoop of them. I can practically hear the echo of the scoop plopping down on the plate, sticky and wet, a heavy thud. I can feel it on my tongue, without taking a single bite. I can feel the air in my lungs catching.
I inhale slowly through my nose, then out through my - my - but bile is crawling up my throat, my stomach churning angrily at the heavy scent of the food.
I have to quickly snap my mouth shut without finishing the exhale, swallowing, swallowing, swallowing, begging my body to not do this, not right here, not in front of everyone, in front of Ace.
I’m fine. I am. I haven’t even taken a bite. My body has no reason to have a reaction. There is no swelling. No itching. No textures. No powerful tastes. My mouth is empty, has been empty.
I'm fine.
It’s all in my head. It’s not real.
It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real -
There’s movement around me. A voice.
It’s Jake.
Jake is leaning toward Travis. Jake is speaking. Jake is amused, his words low and kind of teasing.
I grab my water with a shaking hand, sipping slowly, carefully.
My throat can’t be closing up if I can swallow the water. That’s just logic. A fact.
I’m swallowing water, so I’m able to take in oxygen too. I can breathe. I know I can breathe. I have proved that I can breathe.
I can breathe, I can breathe, I can breathe, I -
Someone shouts. A chair scrapes on the floor. Someone else yells back.
I’m not fine.
I can’t breathe at all.
I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t -
Only 45 seconds.
Only, only, only -
I’m out of the room without making the conscious decision to run, my feet bringing me to safety. Except, they don’t bring me where they usually take me when my fight or flight kicks in. I don’t find myself in my bedroom, my bed waiting for me to hide beneath it.
Instead, I find myself looking at Ace’s office door. I find myself turning the knob and seeing that it’s unlocked.
I make my first conscious decision then. I take a step inside.
The screens are all off. The main light is, too. There’s a lamp in the corner, though. It’s just enough to keep the space from feeling too dark.
I close the door behind me. I turn the first lock.
Then, remembering Ace saying he’s the only one with the key, I turn the second.
The worst that could happen is that Ace doesn’t have the key with him right now and I have to get up to let him inside.
I don’t think he’d even be annoyed, let alone angry about it.
Even if he did get angry, something tells me his anger is safe.
If I’m wrong, if his anger is like the others, then… at least I’ll finally know.
My heart is already slowing down by the time I’m climbing over the arm of the couch and into the hiding spot from before.
It’s not until I go to lay down that I realize I’m still holding the glass of water.
My hand is wet. I must have spilled it at some point.
I think it should feel cold or warm or something, but I feel nothing.
I just stare at it, stare at the way a drop is about to fall off the knuckle of my thumb, and feel nothing at all.
I carefully put the glass on the little table that works with the couch to build my hiding spot. I wipe my hand off on my pants. The water had gotten on the cuff of my sweatshirt, too. I feel that. I feel the itchy feeling of damp fabric scraping against my skin as I move. I roll it twice.
I curl up in a little ball, tucking my now dry hand into the front pocket of my sweatshirt. The bunny is there - warm and dry and safe. I close my eyes as I rub my thumb in circles on what feels like its belly.
This is nice too. I wish Ace was here. I wish he was smiling at me.
I wish there was music. But still… it’s nice.
Nice is enough for now.